Imaginary
by columbine-and-asphodel
Summary: Sherlock is sixteen and dying- has been for the entirety of his memory. John's been his friend for eternity.  There's a bit of focus on Mr. & Mrs. Holmes, as it gives important background information.


_A/N:_

_Roman numerals indicate a change in setting and characters._

_...'s are general silence unless surrounded by quotation marks, in which case they denote a single character's silence as a response._

* * *

><p>I.<p>

"...Are you well, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mummy, I'm fine, just tired."

"Of course you are. The doctor told me that it makes everyone sleepy at first, but if it makes you better..."

"I don't mind, honestly."

"Good boy, Sherlock. Your father and I- and Mycroft, too- we're all so proud of you, but I have to get going now. Mummy's got to speak with your father."

"Oh... Good bye, then, Mummy. It was... nice to see you."

"Good bye, Sherlock. Be a good boy for the doctors."

...

"Well?"

...

"I know you're here, John. I can feel you. Mummy won't be back any time soon; you can come out now."

"You know, for someone who's crippled and half blind, you're annoyingly perceptive."

"Have you considered that that's _why_ I am so perceptive?"

"I have, actually."

"And?"

"...And I decided that it doesn't really matter. It's just nice to be noticed."

...

"John..."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I didn't want to forget you, you know."

"I know you didn't. That's why I'm still here, right? Friends don't just leave each other."

"Are we really friends, then?"

"Christ's sake, Sherlock! Yes, we're friends! Honestly. Nearly sixteen years, and he asks if we're friends..."

"John-"

"I'm not angry, just... confused. I spend nearly all my time here; I let you order me around; I've slept in your bed at least six times; you've told me how to dress, which I followed, thank you very much. How on earth that doesn't make us friends in your genius head, I'll never know."

"You're right, of course, but there's no one else- no other person I've ever known outside my family and doctors. Friendships, feelings... I cannot understand them, and I'm uncomfortable because I know that people don't take well to me. The number of nurses and doctors who won't work with me is higher than I care to admit, and I don't know what I'd do without you, what I'd do if you left me."

"Hmm... go insane, probably."

"John! I just told you something intimate. The protocol is this situation is to respond in kind! Or so the book said."

...

"Why are you making that face? This isn't funny!"

"Sure it is. It's actually really funny if you think about it, Sherlock."

"No, it isn't!"

...

"Besides... Mummy already thinks I am."

"Sorry?"

"Insane. I heard her tell Father that there's something wrong with me."

"Yeah, well, your Mummy's a right-"

"John!"

"I know; I know. 'Don't insult Mummy!' and all that. She isn't a good mother, though, Sherlock."

"Really, John-"

"If she were, would she constantly leave you alone for the sake of "clients" and other strangers? If she really loved you, would she have tried to take away the one friend you've got in this godforsaken hellhole?"

"..."

"Ah, I'm sorry. That was... too far. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have, but... I'm glad you did. It makes me feel less wrong."

"Wrong? Why would you feel wrong? Other than the obvious."

"You're a good man, John, so if you... don't like Mummy, then it's okay for me not to like her. I'm not... wrong..."

...

"Have I disappointed you? Please, John, I'll take it back, and I'll never say it again, just-"

"Hush. Really, Sherlock, you haven't disappointed me at all- quite the opposite. You're always so inscrutable, so lost inside yourself, that I sometimes wonder if you see me at all. Then you go and say something like that."

"Then... it was good?"

"Well, to be honest, it _should_ be something not-good, but this time, because of everything, yes, it's something good."

...

"Did you mean it, though?"

"Did I mean what, John? You know I hate how inexact you are when you speak."

"I do know that, and I can think of at least fifteen other times you've told me so this past week alone."

"Perhaps you can deduce something from that?"

"Other than the fact that you're a real tosser, Sherlock Holmes?"

"...Other than that, yes."

"Hmm..."

"John...!"

"Yes, yes, sorry. What I meant to ask was, 'Did you mean it when you said that I'm a good man?'"

"Of course I did."

"R-really?"

"Yes. You're a very good man, John, despite your frustrating nature."

...

"Why are you smiling?"

"Because I'm happy."

"Why are you happy, then?"

"Why am I-? I'm happy because you just praised me, you git!"

"Is that... something that I-... Have I been neglecting you, John?"

"What? Neglecting me? Sherlock, I'm not a dog. If there's something wrong, I'll tell you."

"All right..."

...

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Will you tell me about the outside again- what the weather feels like and how there are animals and... and let me imagine everything out there, all the things I can't see?"

"Of course I will, Sherlock. Get comfy, all right?"

II.

"He's doing it again!"

"What? Who?"

"Sherlock- your son, Raeburn! He's talking to that... imaginary friend of his, John Watson."

"And?"

"'And?' And! And why does our son have an imaginary friend? He's sixteen!"

"Yes, he's sixteen and has no friends. He's lived in this hospital for his entire life and has no memories of anything outside it. He is nearly blind and crippled, Gardenia. I think the least that we can do is allow him to have something in which he can take comfort. Why is it that you're so set against anything that might somehow comfort Sherlock?"

"It isn't comfort that's the problem! The problem is the fact that he thinks that this- this John Watson is real!"

"Perhaps to Sherlock he is."

"My son is not-"

"_Our_ son. We may not be married anymore, but that doesn't make him any less my son."

"Our son, then. Just because he isn't as healthy as he could be-"

"He's nearly dead, Gardenia! That's hardly not 'as healthy as he could be.' It's only thanks to those special doctors from Ireland, Moriarty and Moran, that he's survived this long- if you can call it living. If he finds comfort in an... imaginary friend, so be it; I won't take that away from him, nor will I allow you to."

...

"Still, Raeburn. His mind is perfectly sound, yet he constantly speaks to someone who doesn't exist-"

"As I tried to tell you before, _Gardenia_, he exists to Sherlock, and that's all that ought to be important."

III.

"-and sometimes, if you're really lucky, a butterfly will land on you, which is-"

"A butterfly?"

"Mmhmm. They're these strange insects that have wings and usually don't have much to do with people, other than pollination and the occasional kiss."

"Kiss? If you're lying to me-"

"I'm not lying! They land on you and leave a kiss!"

"Well, I still think that you're lying."

"Yeah? Well, I think that you're a massive pain in my arse."

...

"...Then why do you stay? I'm not a fool, John. I know that you would be much better appreciated by other people, ones whose lives don't revolve around a bed. You'd be someone everyone loved and wanted to befriend, and if the telly's to be believed, you'd have plenty of women trying to get into your pants. Why do you waste your life hiding in some sodding hospital with a cripple who takes you for granted?"

...

"I hate you sometimes, you know. You're too good, and I know that- Why are you sighing?"

"Because you're an absolute plonker, Sherlock Holmes."

"What- I- I'm being _nice_-"

"No, you aren't. You're being a bastard, and I'd like you to stop. Sure, your heart's not pumping right and your body's a right mess, but that doesn't mean you get to think I'm sacrificing myself. Don't even try to play the guilt card with me, Sherlock Holmes, because not only can I play it, too, I can play it better, so you need to just stop talking like an idiot or so help me...!"

"So help you? So help you, what? What will you do, John- John who always sits in the chair at the foot of the bed where I cannot reach him?"

"Is that what this is about? You're upset because I sit over here?"

...

"Come on, then. Stop sulking."

...

"Your face is incredibly unattractive when you sulk."

...

"Please?"

...

"Humph. Sherlock Holmes, will you please stop sulking and instead perk up a bit so I can tell you more about the butterflies?"

IV.

"You know what I mean! He has no body; he cannot touch or help Sherlock in any way."

"Other than keeping him from falling back into his dark moods? Remember how bad they used to get and how frightening it was when we tried to made him forget? If a companion who can only be seen by Sherlock can keep my son alive, then let it be. He's only got another few months- What's that? Sherlock? Sherlock!"

V.

"Well, then."

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"What else is there to say? I had a heart attack. I've had them before, as you well know, and I'm sure that this one won't be the last."

"Sherlock..."

"Please, John, I don't have the energy to argue."

"Ah, sorry. I forget sometimes, how tired you get."

"That's one way of phrasing it- and quite a mild one, coming from you."

"Pah, you tosser."

...

"Shall I tell you more about the butterflies and their kisses, then?"

...

"What- what are you doing?"

"I'm lying down. What do you think I'm doing."

"You never do that, though!"

"Today's just one of those days I feel stagnant, I suppose. Would you stop staring and budge up? Honestly, you take up more space than anyone has a right to."

VI.

"I can't take much more of this, Rae."

"Neither can he, if his body's any indicator."

"..."

"Sorry. You know me, can't help but play devil's advocate."

"I do know you, and that's why I didn't say anything. This- this is much harder on you than it is on me. It shouldn't be like that, though, should it? We should be weeping and holding onto each other, yet here I am, dealing with a migraine and focusing on my life, rather than my son's and my hus- ex-husband's. I'm sorry, Raeburn, but I just-"

"It's fine."

"What?"

"You don't have to apologize, Denny. This whole thing- these past sixteen years haven't been easy on any of us. It's only natural that our... less than pleasant sides emerge."

...

"Thank you. You always were different, Raeburn- nothing like my family and certainly nothing like your own."

"I think that's a compliment, despite the fact that my family's common trait is intelligence."

"Yes, well..."

"Hah. I see your wit hasn't deteriorated in our time apart."

"No, I'm the same as I was when we were married."

"Ignoring, of course, the fact that you're sleeping with a man who isn't me?"

"Is that a bit of... jealousy, Mr. Holmes?"

"Jealousy? How silly, Mrs.- err.. Mrs. Felus's wife..."

"Felix."

"Mrs. Felus Felix? And you used to tease me about _my_ name!"

"Felix is his first name. The last is Kierkgaard."

...

"Don't look me like that. It's not as though he had any say in it."

...

"What? Stop giving me that look! Honestly, you're an adult, not a child; just tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that I'd like to know what your last name is."

"I told you-"

"No, you said, 'The last name,' which is quite vague."

"I never could hide things from you... Fine, it's still Holmes- because of _convenience_ and nothing more."

"Of course not. You, ah, made it abundantly clear during our divorce that you no longer had any feelings towards me that could be taken as romantic."

"Raeburn..."

"It's fine, really. Better to have loved and lost than not at all, right?"

"That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard you say, including that time you tried dirty talk."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you, devil woman?"

"No, definitely not."

...

"You think it's him, don't you?"

"Sorry?"

"John Watson, Sherlock's... friend. You think he's the same boy from the crash."

"..."

"But how could Sherlock know? He was only a days old when it happened, and neither of us said anything to him."

"No, Gardenia, I didn't say anything to him."

"I never said-"

"But you implied it. I'm not so crass as to tell my young, troubled son that as we made our way from the hospital the day he came home for the first time, we accidentally... _hit_ another car with a toddler in it and that that little boy died because the driver got distracted when Sherlock cried out."

...

"I'm sorry, Rae. I didn't mean it like that. I just... Maybe you'd told him a bit by accident, or that he overheard you, or something."

"A whole story, one that still chokes me up?"

"No, just... maybe you said his name?"

"No, I've no idea where Sherlock got it from."

VII.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why were you in the hospital?"

"Hmm?"

"When we met, you were wandering around the hospital. You still haven't told me why you were here in the first place."

"Oh, that. I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it? My parents and I were in the car on our way home from the doctor- I'd got an ear infection, I think- when we got hit by this other, bigger car. The driver got distracted by something, apparently, and didn't see us. When I woke up, I was somewhere unfamiliar and got a bit scared, so I started to run around the hospital, looking for my mum. By the time you found me, I'd been searching for... quite a while."

"Is that why you didn't seem worried the first time you went to my room? You were lonely?"

"Yeah, something like that, and you seemed like someone I'd like."

"Even though I yelled at you?"

"Pah. You aren't all _that_ scary, Sherlock. Besides, there was something... right about going with you."

"I earnestly hope that you aren't employing the same technique when meeting people anymore. You'll wind up-"

"Yes, yes, I know how I'll wind up, thank you!"

...

"What happened to her, your mother, I mean?"

"Oh, she, uh... didn't make it. I couldn't find her in the hospital 'cause she was somewhere else, someplace the dead go."

"I apologize, John."

"What? Why?"

"Isn't that what people say when learning of a death?"

"Uh, it's usually, 'I'm sorry', since 'I apologize' makes it sound like it's your fault, which this wasn't."

"Oh. I'm sorry, then."

"Thank you."

...

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think happens when someone dies?"

"Obvious. The person's death is verified, the body given to the family- if it was natural- and either buried or cremated."

"Not what I meant..."

"Oh."

...

"Were you referring to the possibility of an afterlife?"

"Mm."

"I cannot logically think that there is, but... if there is one, I believe that your mother is there, happily waiting for you."

...

"Thank you, Sherlock. That really- that means a lot, especially since I know that you don't like talking about things that can't be proved."

"Yes, well, I don't mind making an exception for you."

...

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Like those spirits in movies who are trapped on earth?"

"Exactly!"

"No."

"Oh..."

"Why do you look so sad? As you said, there's no proof."

"I don't know. It just sounded like something... good."

"Haunting people and killing them is good?"

"No, you git. I mean like Patrick Swayze in _Ghost._"

"..."

"You've never seen it, have you?"

"Who's Patrick Swayze?"

"Oh, for- Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong? Why are you-? Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock! _Sherlock!_"

VIII.

"Is it... over?"

"Over? Denny, nothing's over. We- we still have to bury our son."

"Yes, but... No more hospitals or late-night emergencies. Felix and I can finally move on and start a family, just like I've always wanted."

"..."

"Rae, I... hope that you, too, won't spend any more time under the shadow of-"

"Go! Just... go, please. If you're so eager to push our son away, then I won't get in your way. In return, don't get in mine; I'd like my memories of Sherlock to be untainted by your desire to forget us."

"Raeburn-"

"Excuse me, but I have arrangements to make and a child to bury."

IX.

"Where am I?"

"The cafeteria."

"John, is that you?"

"Mmhmm."

"You have wings."

"I do."

"Why do you have wings?"

"A couple of reasons, actually, but the most pertinent one is that I need them so I can bring you to heaven."

"But heaven doesn't exist."

"Except it does."

"No, it doesn't. It can't. There is absolutely no proof that-"

"Christ. You can accept that I've got wings without blinking and that you can _see-_ yes, I know that you can see perfectly now- yet the idea of heaven upsets you?"

"..."

"Or is it God who bothers you?"

"..."

"Here's the thing, Sherlock. Heaven is what you make of it. If you don't want there to be God, gods, goddesses, deities- then there won't be any."

"But-"

"No buts. Logic doesn't apply to the supernatural, I'm afraid. Unless, of course, you're in heaven and want it to."

"What if I don't want to-"

"You are going to heaven, dammit. I did _not_ spend sixteen years watching over you and making sure that you didn't kill yourself to lose you because of your own pig-headed stubbornness, so take my hand before I decide that grabbing you by the hair would be better."

"I have a question, though."

"Sherlock..."

"Please?"

"Fine..."

"What's your heaven?"

"My heaven? I don't have one, Sherlock. I'm an angel, and angels aren't allowed to have heavens."

"Why not?"

"That's two questions!"

"John..."

"Yes, fine, I'll tell you, all right? I don't actually fancy trying to force you into heaven while you wriggle about and make a scene."

...

"There are many types of angels- at least ten- and we're all a bit different. The type I am doesn't get to go to heaven because we aren't people. For some reason or other, we died when someone else was supposed to, and there's no heaven built for us, since they only build them just before your death."

"Who...?"

"Who did I die instead of? Think about it."

...

"Me, then?"

"Mmhmm. That accident you were in sixteen years ago? That was your time to go- and my mum's. Instead, it was Mum and me who died. When I saw you- you see all the souls around you when you have a near-death experience- and saw that you were dying, I wound up not wanting that to happen. I wanted to save you. Turns out that when I was little, I really liked dark hair, and I saw what the coming years had in store for you and wanted to make sure you didn't hurt more than you had to."

"John...?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why... Why aren't you angry? I _killed _you."

"Stop that. You did not kill me. The choice was mine, and I don't regret it."

...

"John... you _do_ have a heaven."

"Sherlock, I already told you that I can't-"

"Yes, you do; you'll be in mine, because if you aren't in it, then it won't be heaven."


End file.
